


Ēlýsion pedíon

by kkingofthebeach



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkingofthebeach/pseuds/kkingofthebeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is his Elysium: flushed cheeks and lips bitten to redness, like wine splashed over golden skin, blue eyes flecked with olive-green and earthy browns, and dark hair spread over trampled grass. </p><p>There is a tomorrow and one after that, and those tomorrows are not contained within an hourglass anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ēlýsion pedíon

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a dorky Classics A-Level student who spends too much time crying over these Homersexuals at all hours of the day. Honestly I just wanted to gift this fandom with some body worship'n porn because there's a surprising lack of it. Come say hi on tumblr, [between2devils.tumblr.com](http://between2devils.tumblr.com)

It is better after.

Everything is so much better.

He knows that there might be a day on the horizon that will bring a jarring onslaught of regrets, impossible wishes, and hopes that cannot be. But everything is still new, and something stops Achilles from thinking about that day too hard. 

Elysium is an entirely new world. They say that it is paradise – the fields as incorruptible as the people they hold. There is no rain, no tremors of the earth, no violent gales to wreck them or snow to freeze them – just long summer days to bask in, with the West Wind sending in its welcome breeze of cool air. And yet, no day feels quite the same; it is never repetitive or tedious to get from dawn to dusk, but an easy glide through every hour. 

It is innately perfect, but the people inhabiting it are far from it. There is still so much to talk about and work through: things that have stayed with them from the world above Hades. But they have the rest of eternity to learn from their mistakes, acknowledge their wrongs and their hubris – to change and be better. But right now, these days are on the horizon. Right now, this is the time to find each other again. 

Achilles cannot fathom that he is here and Patroclus is here, and they have forever. He’s not sure what he once expected—certainly never a long life—but this is more blissful than imaginable. Of course he stills feel a crippling clench in his chest when he thinks about why they have this—how they came to be here—but a knowing touch of Patroclus’ fingers to his cheek has the torment slipping gently away. 

They’re in the fields, as they often are when the air starts to cool and the sun dips lower in the sky. Long grass envelops them, standing tall and swaying with the wind, keeping them inside their own secret world. Elysium is a shared realm, watched over by Cronos and Rhadamanthus, but they easily find complete isolation whenever desired. Times such as now, when Achilles has Patroclus lying down in the fields, back flattening the grass below him, chin tipped up to the last rays of the golden sun. 

“I love this,” he says, and Patroclus will smile until dimples press into his cheeks. “I love you.” He says it often, but never tires of the reaction it draws from Patroclus: the softening of his eyes, still streaked with a hint of disbelief, the deep intake of breath. 

Patroclus slides his fingers through Achilles’ hair, combing through curls as he draws him closer, their foreheads coming to rest against one another. The fields are where they take their time, Achilles trying to touch every inch of Patroclus’ skin to hear all the different sounds he’ll make. They’ve never had it like this – others were always just a shadow away: the palace at Phthia, Chiron on the mountain, and men after men in the Achaean camp at Ilium. But now each action can be slow, every glide of lips languid and every press of skin unhurried. 

“Say it again,” Patroclus whispers, and Achilles complies easily, saying it over and over into Patroclus’ flesh, until hot breath sears the words into it. 

He parts Patroclus’ thighs further, slotting their bodies flush together, skin touching at every point as their chitons lay abandoned some feet away. His fingers trace every contour, moving up the insides of Patroclus’ thighs and dipping into the lines of his Apollo’s belt, before he braces his hands just below his ribs. 

Patroclus holds in a sound that isn’t quite a mewl, anticipation thrumming through him as Achilles begins rolling his hips, eyes locked carefully on Patroclus. There’s sweat gathering low on their abdomens, pooling behind collarbones, and damping the hair around both of their necks. Patroclus curls his hands around Achilles’ arms and reaches up to capture him in a kiss, slow and lazy and sweeter than any ambrosia in the gods’ bowls, more delicious and satisfying than the nectar in their cups. 

Achilles maps out every stretch of Patroclus’ bronzed skin, covers all he can reach in soft presses of his lips and open-mouthed kisses, tiny prayers of worship crossing every muscle and bone. In life, Patroclus was a perfection made to fit Achilles and balance him, but in the afterlife, he is sublime. Achilles is a demigod but Patroclus is a star shining just as bright, keeping his path lit and always guiding him. _He would the most brilliant star of them all_ , Achilles thinks, if only the Olympians had been granted a taste of him—if Zeus had felt Patroclus’ breath on his neck or if Apollo had watched him stretch like a cat upon waking up. 

Achilles hastily shifts back to kiss Patroclus’ mouth, biting at his bottom lip as Patroclus arches up in a moan and opens up under Achilles’ mouth, letting those throaty, breathless sounds be swallowed whole. The prayers keep coming—odes to Patroclus and his body—as Achilles licks at the roof of his mouth and grinds his hips harder into him, drawing out groans like honey dripping from his fingers. 

Achilles fights a full-body shiver as Patroclus pushes up against him, cocks sliding perfectly as Patroclus scrapes his nails over the nape of his neck, fists a hand in his tangle of hair and tightens his thighs around him. He’s panting something in a rush, and Achilles feels the words falling against the corner of his mouth but he isn’t listening because he’s _so close_ it’s almost painful, and then Patroclus is choking on his own voice as he spills between them, slicking their cocks up as he rides it out. 

Achilles buries his face in the crook of Patroclus’ neck as calloused fingers wrap around him, barely aware of his teeth sinking into Patroclus’ shoulder as he comes with a shudder. Patroclus is boneless beneath him, eyes shut and a lazy smile gracing his features as he winds his arms around Achilles’ back. Achilles shifts a little sideways so that he isn’t entirely crushing Patroclus, but is only half-draped over him as their breath steadies. 

“I’ll never tire of this,” Achilles mumbles into Patroclus’ chest, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. 

Patroclus’ eyes open sluggishly, and his smile widens when he clocks the blissed out, complete look of contentment that Achilles is sporting. “And I’ll never tire of you,” he replies easily, and Achilles knows that no lyre makes a sound more beautiful than Patroclus’ voice like this.

This is his Elysium: flushed cheeks and lips bitten to redness, like wine splashed over golden skin, blue eyes flecked with olive-green and earthy browns, and dark hair spread over trampled grass. The sun will go down and it will rise again tomorrow, bringing more and more of this heaven; but this is forever, and gone are the days where a new sun means time running out.


End file.
